


Supernatural Firsts

by scorpia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Earlier Life, Family Fluff, Fluff, John isn't the best father, Memories, No Wincest, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Dean, POV Sam, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester, but he tries, in his own way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-19 21:21:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4761464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpia/pseuds/scorpia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of firsts in the earlier lives of Sam and Dean Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dean

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you for reading my very first published work! Right now I have Dean-centric chapters and Sam-centric chapters, I was debating whether or not I should also add Castiel-centric ones as well. If you think I should, please let me know in the comments below. Enjoy!

The first time Dean swore to Sam that he’d always protect him was in 1983. 

Sam was 9 months old and their father was almost certain that such a thing as demons existed. John had told Dean he was going to visit Missouri at their old house so he could “learn the truth”. Dean never understood John when he said things like that. He thought they lived in Kansas. 

John left the boys at a fellow mechanic's house with his coworker's wife before he took off. Sam was laying in his baby carrier in front of the couch on the living room floor. The woman they were with, an overbearing, albeit kind, Mrs. Corvis, was making Dean a PB&J in the kitchen. The small TV was on some cartoon channel, The Looney Tunes, Dean thinks, but he wasn’t paying any attention to them. No, instead he was watching his little brother’s eyes as they wandered across the room. 

When Mrs. Corvis came out of the kitchen she placed Dean’s paper plate on the coffee table before him and was about to take Sam out of his carrier to feed him the bottle of formula she’d prepared. 

“No!” Dean had panicked as she reached out to touch Sam.

She pulled back quickly, looking alarmed, and briefly ran her eyes over Dean as if to check him for injuries. When she found none, her confusion only grew.

“Dean, what is it?”

“Don’t move him,” Dean objected, placing his small hands on the carrier to defend it. 

Mrs. Corvis smiled down at Dean. “Oh, dear, I was only going to give him a bottle. He needs to eat so he can grow big and strong just like his brother,” she encouraged.

Dean hesitated, but held his ground in the end. He just didn’t want anyone touching Sammy when he looked so peaceful. Seeing his reluctance, Mrs. Corvis hummed. 

“How about this: I need to go and clean up the mess I just made in the kitchen. Do you think you could feed your brother for me?”

She held the bottle out to him and Dean took it gingerly. He stared at it a moment, then allowed Mrs. Corvis to instruct him on how to guide Sam into taking it. Once she was sure Dean had the hang of it, she went back into the kitchen, stopping once to glance fondly over her shoulder at the brothers. 

As Sam ate, Dean used his free hand to gently – as gently as a four year old can – stroke his brother’s cheek. That’s when Sam’s chubby, little hand came up and wrapped itself around Dean’s ring and little finger, clutching him like a lifeline. At that moment, Dean had a realization beyond his young age. He took into account what Mrs. Corvis had said, that Sammy needed to eat to become strong like Dean. It hit Dean that he was the one doing that for Sam. He was the one feeding him so he could live and grow.

In this moment, Sam depended on Dean, it was clear in the way he looked up at Dean with wide, helpless eyes. Something strange, something that Dean’s mind couldn’t yet processes as love and protectiveness, overflowed in him. Dean leaned down and kissed his brother’s forehead.

“I’ll always be there for you, Sammy,” he whispered. “You can count on me. I’ll protect you.”

Sam blinked up at Dean. Almost as if he understood, the grip Sam had on Dean's fingers tightened for a moment.


	2. Dean

The first time Sam nearly gave Dean a heart attack, supernatural times aside, was also the first time Dean swore off dreaming of having a different life. 

Sam had been seven, and he and an eleven year-old Dean were walking home – or, well, to the motel of the week – from a school in Florida. 

Sam had been jabbering on and on about how cool it was that the teacher made a two liter of Dr. Pepper explode from a pack of Mentos. As happy as Dean was that his little brother took to learning so well, he knew that the kid was going places in his life, he just couldn’t handle any more talk of prison – er – school, that is. He’d let his mind wander, as well as his eyes, and they both landed on the display window of the music store the brothers were passing. 

Dean slowed his pace, arching his neck as he saw a drum set settled on a makeshift stage from inside the store. He’d always wanted one, learning to play would be so awesome, and it’d impress the ladies for sure. Drummers, Dean smirked as he stopped walking completely, chicks always dig the drummers. He began thinking about his life as a potential rockstar. The idea of living in a big, permanent mansion and having band members, actual friends, surround him, was nothing short of entrancing. 

He was in the middle of an interview in his mind, telling the adoring reporter about the imaginary life he could see himself having, when he finally noticed that Sam was no longer chattering beside him. He looked next to him and went cold as he saw the sidewalk empty. Whipping his head around, he caught Sammy, his little, trusting Sammy, walking up to a dark car from the corner of his eye. The car had stopped in the middle of the road, and the tinted windows were only open a crack. Even in the daylight, he still couldn't get a clear view of the driver. 

“Sam!” Dean screamed as panic seized his young heart.

He ran to his brother as fast as he could and grabbed him by the back of his collar before he could take another step. He yanked him away so hard that he fell onto Dean, who almost toppled under the weight himself. The car sped away, screeching and leaving behind skid marks in the street. Dean clutched Sam to him, quite literally dragging him back to the curb.

“Dean, they just wanted help with something,” Sam protested. “Isn’t that what we do? Help people?”

Dean sighed at his brother’s naivety. “Yeah, Sammy, we do, but not like that. Not those kinds of people.” Dean leaned down and looked straight at Sam, putting a hand on his shoulder and pointing a finger in his face so that Sam could tell he was serious. “Don’t ever go up to someone you don’t know all by yourself, ya hear me? Don’t you ever do that again.”

Sam nodded with eyes wide. Dean shook his head, annoyed, but not at Sam. Looking at that drum set, imagining all the ways his life could be different, better, he almost lost what mattered to him most. Serves him right for being selfish. It’s just like Dad had always told him: Watch out for Sammy. His father sure as hell wasn’t going to do it, and somebody had to. Dean almost failed Sam, was almost the reason Sam could’ve been hurt, and that thought may very well haunt him the rest of his life. 

That’s it, no more. No more thinking of another life, of all the ‘what if’s and ‘maybe’s. Sam needed him here in this life, so here in this life is where he’ll remain.

He ruffled his little brother’s hair, getting a little curly with length. “Come on, kid, let’s get back and I’ll make ya a peanut butter sandwich.”

“Ok,” Sam simply agreed, happy that his big brother’s mood seemed to brighten.

Dean didn’t take his hand off Sam’s shoulder the whole way back.


	3. Dean

The first time Sam ever made a headshot it was saving Dean’s life. 

Sammy was twelve, Dean was sixteen. John had taken them to Arkansas to smoke a werewolf. Simple, something they had done several times before.

The trail of mean teacher and school bully corpses, as well as the decidedly sloppy cleanup jobs, led the Winchesters to the local high school on the next full moon. While breaking into one of the classrooms to set up a base, the guys heard a deep, guttural roar coming from the football field. 

“Dean, you’re with me. Sammy, stay here in case it comes back,” John ordered.

“In case it comes back? You just don’t want me out there with you. I’m not a kid anymore, Dad,” Sam smarted back.

Dean nudged his brother and gave him a pleading look, grateful that his father had ignored Sam’s tone and simply walked out. Sam sighed at Dean and heaved the case of bullets down on the duffel bag, throwing himself into one of the desk chairs dramatically. 

“Next time, kiddo, ok?” Dean promised as their father called out for him to hurry. 

Dean ran down the stairs with John and the two made their way out into the middle of the football field. Dean knew better than to bring up what he’d been calling ‘The Sam Argument’. John nearly bit his head off the one time he suggested that he should give Sam more of a chance to prove himself. Both his brother and father were logical men, but both could be complete hotheads when the mood took them, which it only ever did around one another. It was a miracle Dean didn’t give in to his more child-like urges to sit cross-legged between them, his fingers stuffed in his ears, singing “Lalalalalala” to drown them out. 

Instead of rehashing old disputes, he kept quiet in favor of hearing any noises the monster could be giving off. A growling slowly grew louder from the bleachers off to their right, closer to John’s side. They turned instantly, aiming their guns and awaiting the creature’s next move. They didn’t wait long. A flurry of dark brown launched itself at them. Both the Winchesters fired off their guns, one bullet pierced its arm, causing it to howl in pain.

It landed a few feet from them but dodged as they shot again. They followed its movements with their guns, shooting when they thought they had a chance. It stopped dancing around them when Dean ran out of bullets, finally deciding to take a direct attack again. John could guess its next move, and shoved Dean out of the way before it could reach his son. It tackled John to the ground but yelped when John’s final shot went through its heart. 

Dean, scrambling to get to his feet, shoved the mass of claws and fur off his father, helping him to stand. By the time John straightened up, the wolf had disappeared and a junior from the high school – a guy that had acted really twitchy when they were questioning him – laid in its stead.

“Kid must’ve gotten in over his head,” John commented. He and Dean turned around to walk back to the car and get something to wrap the kid up in.

“Yeah, but he was green. I mean, he couldn’t’ve been a were longer than the three months that the killings were going on. Where’s the thing that turned him?” Dean asked. 

John was about to hypothesize an answer when a louder, much deeper roar emanated from their left. The guys managed to turn in just enough time to see a bigger, lighter brown blur moving down from the top of the stands at a fast pace. 

“Run!” John screamed, shoving Dean along.

Even with the head start, they knew they couldn’t outrun a werewolf, but they were out of bullets. With no options left, they took off like the devil himself was chasing them. Getting back to the school, back to where they had the rest of their supplies was their only chance. 

The creature was barreling after them, catching up quickly. They were in sight of the school, couldn’t have been further then five or six hundred feet from the front door. John was a few feet ahead of Dean and, as a result, it was Dean that the werewolf targeted. 

Dean knew it was gaining on him, could see its shadow growing from the moonlight and hear its grunting as it approached. It was almost on top of him and Dean braced himself when he saw the shadow jump.

As soon as it left the ground, a rifle went off and Dean had no time to even react before a mass of muscle and fur collapsed on his caves, knocking him face-first on the pavement. Ignoring the scrape on his face, he scurried out from underneath it. He expected for it to swipe at him, to bite, but nothing came. 

He flipped onto his back and stared as the furry creature shrank back to its human form, a middle-aged man they’d spoken to days prior who used to be a guidance counselor. Dean got to his feet, stunned, as he saw blood trickling down the bullet-sized hole in the man's forehead. He turned around, where his father stood equally as surprised and still armed with nothing but his empty pistol. Well if John hadn't shot him . . . ? 

That’s when Dean looked up at the rows of windows from the classrooms above them. There, on the second floor, Sam stood in front of a window with a rifle, almost too big for him, tucked under his arm. 

“WOOOOWHOO! ATTA BOY, SAMMY!” Dean screamed, throwing his arms up in victory. 

He knew the smile on his face said it all, but the adrenaline was still pumping through his veins and goddammit he was proud of his little brother, who not only just got his first headshot – a signal of manhood if there ever was one for a hunter – but he’d also just saved Dean’s hide. Sue him if he wanted to celebrate a little. 

He could hear Sam laughing from the classroom and couldn’t help but to do so himself. The joy and confidence that graced Sam’s features were a welcome change to the shyness and gloom that typically were there. Needless to say, that look alone made Dean’s week.

“Damn that was a good shot!” Dean said enthusiastically, looking back down at the werewolf with an amused expression.

“Not bad,” John said, walking up to the creature and nudging it with his toe, “but I’ll have to shoot it again. Sam didn’t aim for its heart like you’re supposed to with weres. Can’t be too careful.”

Dean glared at his father, knowing John had said that just loud enough for Sam to hear the critique. John would be thinking that announcing this shortcoming would only help Sam's game later on, but Sam . . .

“Come on, Dad, it was a good shot. Besides, Sammy just saved my life,” Dean pointed out, hoping that would make his father see a little sense. 

John scoffed. “Yeah, well, kid had some luck on his side today.” He turned and began walking back in the building.

Dean looked up at Sam, the pride and happiness that was there mere moments ago now gone. Dean cursed under his breath. Poor Sammy, he didn’t deserve that. Why couldn’t their father let Sam just have this one? Once again, it was up to Dean to say what their father should have. 

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean called out again. Sam looked up. “I’m proud of you, kiddo. Good job.”


	4. Sam

The first time Dean ever shot a gun was in 1987. 

John hadn’t wanted to give his sons weapons at too young an age, but Dean was eight now and, if he was going to have the boys with him on hunts, one of them was going to need to learn to defend themselves. Sam was far too young to do it, but Dean could. 

It was just a .22, small enough for Dean’s still growing hands, but to Sam it looked like a canon. He remembers it, despite his young age. Remembers how John had lined up the beer bottles - the contents of which he'd chugged the night before - on a wooden fence on the side of a gravel road somewhere in Texas. He’d set Dean at a line about four yards away, showed him how to put the safety on and take it off, then let him go at it.

Sam stood a few feet off to Dean’s left, looking up at his brother in awe. Dean’s face was obviously terrified, though he tried to hide it. He didn’t know how his dad couldn’t see it when, to him, it was as plain as the sky is blue. Regardless of how Dean had bragged to Sam that he would hit every target, on the first try, now he looked unsure of himself. That lack of confidence was a first for Sam to glimpse on his brother’s face, and it made him sad to see it. 

He went up to Dean, wrapped his arms as far as they could go around his waist and hugged him tight. Dean, panicked a moment, making sure the safety was on the gun again, before petting Sammy’s head. Sam looked up at him and Dean gave a shaky laugh, patting his arm again before prying Sam off of him.

“Go sit over there now, Sammy,” he said, gesturing toward their father. “Don’t want you too close. You could get hurt.”

“Sam, come here,” John called out to his youngest. Sam turned his head to look at him. “You’ll get in Dean’s way over there and he needs to learn this if he has a shot at protecting the two of you when I’m not around.”

“Okay,” Sam replied, sitting back down in the grass near John.

It wasn’t fair. Poor Dean didn’t want to learn how to shoot, Sam could just tell. Sure, Dean might think it's cool, but the first time Dean heard his father shoot off a gun he’d jumped so high in the air Sam had worried he’d hit his head on the ceiling. He wanted to tell Dean that he didn’t need to be like their father; that it was alright if he didn’t want to do this. He wanted to give Dean the comfort Dean always gave him, but the last time he said something like that his dad had yelled at him, so he kept his mouth shut. 

Instead, he smiled at Dean when he turned to look at him. Dean nodded. John told Dean to stand firm, aim, and fire. Dean spread his legs out in a stance fit for Indiana Jones, pointed the gun out in front of him, squeezed his eyes shut at the last minute and pulled the trigger. The popping sound was one Sam was familiar with, but he’d never been standing so close before. As a result, he screamed and covered his ears, but Dean had gotten it worse.

The kickback wasn’t something Dean had prepared for, and it sent him backwards, landing flat on his back with panting breaths and wide eyes. Sam and John both ran over to him.

“Dean?” Sam shouted, somewhat in Dean’s face, grabbing a small fistful of his shirt and shaking it.

“Son, get up,” John said, looping his arms under Dean’s shoulders and hauling him to an upright position. 

The gun was still on the ground and for a moment no one tried to pick it up. Dean took a deep breath, put his hand to his chest as he did so - the gun had come back so hard it'd hit him there - and looked over at the six bottles. None of them had broken. Sam looked from the bottles to Dean, trying to figure out what his reaction would be. His dad was normally mad when he missed a target, but Dean seemed quiet, his eyebrows furrowed. 

“Well, you were close,” John finally said, picking the gun up off the ground and walking over. He pointed at the new hole burrowed just diagonal and below from the third bottle on the right. “For your first shot, it’s not bad. But it’s not good enough if something’s coming at you or your brother.”

Dean huffed out a sigh and nodded, somewhat dejected with himself. Sam hated it. He nudged his big brother and smiled up at him.

“Good job, Dean, you hit something just like you said you would!”

Dean smirked down at Sam and ruffled his hair, looking up when John came back to where his sons stood. He held out the gun and Dean took it cautiously.

“Try again.”


End file.
